


Apartment 4R

by trash4ficsaboutlurv



Category: Luke Cage (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-19
Updated: 2017-03-19
Packaged: 2018-10-08 02:15:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10375590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trash4ficsaboutlurv/pseuds/trash4ficsaboutlurv
Summary: Luke and Claire go apartment hunting





	

“Mariah mighta been right about a couple things,” Luke said as he and Claire walked up the dusty, narrow stairs of the third apartment on their realtors list. The other two apartments had been walk-ups, too. Sixth floor walk-ups. At least this one was only on the fourth-floor, but Luke dreamed of the mechanical clatter of not-so-thoroughly-inspected elevators. He’d had a stitch in his side all morning, maybe his whole life, and his thighs had gone from cramping to a low-simmer burn that was eating away at his bones. He almost joked to Claire that climbing all these stairs was like working out in prison, only worse. He didn’t because of the realtor up ahead and because he knew Claire would smile that I-can’t-help-my-man-is-corny-but-damn-is-he-corny smile and he’d want to kiss her in this horrible, awful stairwell, taste the warm vanilla of her lips.

His shoulder brushed against the wall and his jacket came away with flaky, yellow paint on it -- like scales of eczematic skin. Claire brushed the paint chips away.

“What’d Mariah get right?” she asked.

Luke held up the _For Rent_ ad for this apartment, it’s price circled in bright, acid green. “White people in Harlem did a lot of damage to rent around here.”

Claire made a humming noise of dissension. “Wouldn’t be so hard if you had slightly less odd circumstances,” she murmured. She said it quietly, so the realtor, a short black guy named Morgan who had the energy to ascend every sort of walk-up Harem had to offer, wouldn’t hear.

“I don’t have a whole lot of choice,” Luke reminded her.

She grumbled mutinously, but refrained from outright scolding him. She’d got that out of her system last night.

Luke glanced over his shoulder at her and smiled. She had just stepped into a feeble beam of sunlight coming through the small window in the wall opposite them. Her brown eyes were bright and gleaming, her black hair bleached golden by the light. She had a little annoyed wrinkle between her brows and her full mouth turned down at the corners. She was beautiful.

Luke couldn’t tell her that. Women didn’t like to be called pretty when they were irritated with you. Seemed like you were trying to distract them or dismiss them. Contrary to popular belief, men – or at least, Luke; he wouldn’t speak for other men – Luke could hold more than one thought in his head at once. He could think that Claire was the most beautiful human he’d ever laid eyes on and simultaneously hear and comprehend her many objections to him trying to rent an apartment while his name was still technically uncleared.

“You can stay with me,” she’d said last night as they ate Chinese take-out. They were sitting on her couch. Or rather he was sitting on her couch. She was sitting on him, which seemed to be her favorite place to sit. She said it was so he couldn’t run off and leave her again. He’d have to carry her along. “Getting your own apartment is an unnecessary risk,” she added.

Luke set his lo mein on the arm of the sofa. He rubbed up and down Claire’s arms, trying to be soothing. “My name is all but cleared. Some things have to go through the proper channels, but I’m as good as golden. Besides, for my apartment, I’ll be paying cash.”

“Suspicious,” Claire said. “And all the more reason for someone to look at you a little longer than usual and put two and two together.”

“Nobody’s gonna turn me in, Claire.”

“You don’t know that,” she said. She dragged her index finger along the ridge of his collarbone, down to the hollow at the base of his throat. “You don’t know that everyone in Harlem is on your side just because you’re black. And besides, not everybody in Harlem _is_ black. Hell’s Kitchen is safer.”

“Because of your little friend who fights ninjas?” Luke grinned and Claire pinched his arm.

“I’m just saying, Hell’s Kitchen has too many problems to borrow some from uptown. They’re not clocking for you below 111th. And it helps that it’s my name on the lease here.”

Luke grabbed Claire’s wrist to keep her from tracing the contours of his mouth. She had a habit of touching him like she was committing him to memory, like he might go away again. He kissed her palm. “Say someone found out I was here. With you. Someone starts noticing a big black man in a hoodie coming and going all the time. _They_ put two and two together. They watch the news, which doesn’t have an uptown/downtown filter. You have to admit that puts you in danger.”

Claire’s jaw thrust forward. “It’s not gonna happen. I couldn’t tell you what one of my neighbors looks like.”

“I stick out,” Luke said gently. “I’m a giant. And I’m black. Very black even.”

Claire pressed her forehead against Luke’s collarbone. Her shampoo smelled like coconuts. “How is that different in Harlem?” she asked.

“Well, there’s more _mes_ , for starters.”

Claire’s lips twitched like she wanted to smile. “Theirs is only one Luke Cage, believe me.”

“You go looking for a replacement while I was away?” Luke cupped Claire’s head, felt the cool waterfall of her hair over his fingertips.

“Of course not. And you haven’t distracted me. I still think it’s incredibly stupid to go back to Harlem, rent an apartment under another assumed name (and Joe Goodman is a terrible name), and try to pick up where you left off all while keeping a low-profile until they (the nebulous they you won’t tell me more about) clear your name. I’m stupider just for saying that stupid plan out loud!”

“Claire,” Luke murmured.

“I swear, I keep finding men to terrorize me with their laughably moronic decision-making skills.”

“I’m not your Daredevil guy,” Luke promised, kissing the top of Claire’s head. “I don’t have a death wish or any Catholic guilt to work through.”

“No, you just think you’re Mr. Invincible. That you’re the only one who gets hurt if this goes sideways. Which it will.”

“Claire.”

“What?”

Luke smiled at her and shook his head. He wanted to say “I love you,” but he settled for “I already have the realtor lined up for tomorrow. It’s not a done deal.”

So now they were climbing up a pit-like stairwell to the fourth-floor apartment on the right, appropriately labeled 4R. The realtor, Morgan, opened the door and pressed himself flat against the flaky, yellow walls to let Claire and Luke go into the apartment first. He rattled off some details about the place and then offered to let them look around for themselves.

The apartment was small. Very small. A postage stamp of an apartment, but it had been recently renovated. The walls were a cool slate gray and the tiny kitchen had a narrow stainless steel fridge and black cabinets with sleek silver handles. The bathroom’s shower stall was no bigger than the fridge in the kitchen, but the subway tile was bright white and the floor was a white marble look-a-like shot through with gray. The bedroom pointed on to the street and the sun filtered through the glass panes in a way that would be intolerable in August with no AC but was glittering and romantic here in late March.

 “It’s beautiful,” Luke said.

Claire harrumphed which Luke took to mean she didn’t have any real complaints except for how terrifically stupid he was.  He wanted to tell her he loved her. “Why does this place accept cash only, no credit checks people like me?” he asked the realtor.

Morgan shrugged. “The landlord – she’s my auntie – she’s one of those Samaritan sorts. She tries to give ex-cons and undocumented people a chance. Back in the day her brother – Uncle D – couldn’t ever get a place to stay because of his record, so Aunt Trish rents out her place to some non-traditional sorts. And my uncle is the super of this place, and nobody’s taking advantage of Aunt Trish with him stomping around the place. I mean, not that someone like you is probably all that scared of anyone.”

“Someone like me?” Luke repeated. Claire stepped protectively in front of him and raised her eyebrows at the realtor.

“You gotta be 6’3, 240,” Morgan said.

Luke shrugged.

“I didn’t mean anything except a big guy like, big stacked guy, probably aren’t a lot of dudes who can intimidate you.”

 “Oh, I’m a teddy bear,” Luke said. “Isn’t that right, Claire?”

Claire rolled her eyes, smiled in spite of herself. “You’re a cornball,” she corrected. Luke was starting to think that was her way of saying, _I love you._

“So what do you think?” Morgan asked. “Can you see yourself here? There’s laundry in the basement, a Planet Fitness two blocks over, the best fried chicken spot in the city over on Lenox.”

“Better than Aunt Hattie’s?” Luke asked.

“What you know about Aunt Hattie’s?” Morgan asked in delighted surprise. “I thought you were new around here.”

“I am,” Luke said easily. “Stopped over there last week while I was looking at some places. Fried chicken so good had to call on Jesus.”

Morgan laughed. “Yeah, the spot over here gives Aunt Hattie a run for her money. But don’t tell Hattie I said that or she won’t give me freebies anymore. I helped set her nephew up in one of my aunt’s buildings a while back, so she gives me a to-go plate every now and then. The nephew – he was a vet who came back with some demons. He’s doing great now though. You probably heard of him. Sam Wilson? The Falcon before he was the Falcon? He didn’t stay in that apartment too long. Went down to D.C. and became a superhero, but still. I met him. Crazy, right?”

Claire tucked an arm under Luke’s and smiled. “Pretty crazy,” she said.

**Author's Note:**

> This is literally nothing. I was just trying to shake off some writing cobwebs. I did not really succeed, but Luke/Claire doesn't have a lot of content, so ... here's 1500 words of nothing


End file.
